


Dreams Fighting Reality

by trustingHim17



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Nightmares, Post-Story: The Adventure of the Empty House, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:55:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28868130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: If something seemed too good to be true, it probably was, but each day was one more than he had thought to ever get again.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fulfills Whumptober #19. Grief, mourning loved one, survivor’s guilt

“I love you.”

Her voice was nearly a whisper, half asleep as she was, and I laid back and rolled over, throwing my arm over her shoulder.

“I love you, too.”

She sighed, her breaths slowing as she went back to sleep, and I watched despite knowing I should get up. Her cold was mild, with barely even a fever, and I had patients to see, but I was so content, lying next to her.

My gaze drifted to her stomach, joy blooming again at the prospect of a child. Mary had only told me a few weeks ago, and the promise of fatherhood had finally begun lifting the pall of grief and guilt lingering from Holmes’ death. I looked forward to when I would be able to feel our little one make his or her presence known. Would the baby be a boy or a girl?

I considered the question for only a moment before shrugging it away, still staring at my beautiful wife glowing with pregnancy even in fevered sleep. We would love the little one either way, and the child would carry a piece of his or her late godfather with them. Mary had agreed to honor Holmes in the baby’s middle name.

I really should get up, but I pushed the thought away. I still had time. I had no early patients today.

She had originally suggested honoring him in the first name, but I did not think I could stand hearing such a tangible memory spoken every day, not when the grief was still so heavy. Holmes’ death was my fault, and I knew it. The guilt had yet to fade even almost three years later, but Mary—and now our little one—gave me a reason to push through it. Perhaps the coming child was a sign that I was not a curse after all, that I could create life.

That not _everyone_ I loved would die just because I was near.

Mary roused again, smiling when she saw me still lying with her, but my answering smile faded as she stiffened beneath my hand.

“Mary?”

She made no answer, staring through me as she started to convulse, and I shoved the covers back and nearly leaped to my feet. I had left my bag next to the bed, and I grabbed it, hurrying around to her side as I desperately hoped I would be able to help.

“Mary!”

Her head arched back, and her mouth opened wide as she fought to breathe, shaking from head to toe.

No. Please, no.

Eclampsia. It could only be eclampsia, and grief closed its cold fingers around my heart. There was no treatment for eclampsia except delivery, and we were still far too early in the pregnancy.

“Stay with me, Mary!”

She continued to shake, unable to hear me, and I nearly flung the pillow to the floor to make her lie flat, grabbing my stethoscope with my other hand as I did so.

I got the stethoscope in position just in time to hear one beat, then silence.

_“MARY!”_

I jerked upright, clawing frantically at my covers to find myself in bed.

It was a dream, I told myself, breathing heavily as I glanced around the Swiss rented room. Just a dream. Mary was safe in London. There was no child, no eclampsia, no convulsions. She was fine. She was safe.

Footsteps sounded, and Holmes opened the door to my room.

“Watson?”

“I’m fine, Holmes. Just a dream.”

He continued into the room, glancing at me to be sure before pointedly looking at his watch.

“We go to Rosenlaui this afternoon.”

I nodded. There was no use going back to sleep now, and I quickly got ready. Our landlord had suggested a detour to see Reichenbach Falls, and after a leisurely morning spent exploring the nearby village, we turned our steps in that direction.

The falls were truly spectacular, and I enjoyed experiencing them with the friend I had seen far too infrequently in the last several months. He always seemed to be out of the flat when I tried to call, and he had stopped asking us to help with his cases. I missed the adventure, the conversations, the time spent with my friend. I hoped this meant he would start asking again. That had been a wonderful year.

“Watson.”

Holmes gestured toward the path from town, and a boy sprinted toward us, carrying a note informing me that my services were needed. I hesitated to leave, but Holmes enjoined me to go. He would meet me in Rosenlaui this evening, and with one last glance at my friend, I turned my steps down the path, toward the woman back at the inn requesting an English doctor.

Only she wasn’t. There _was_ no sick woman at the inn, and I hurried back the way I had come. The note was a hoax, a ploy, and I had left my friend alone on a dead-end path.

I pushed the thought away. I had to be in time. I _had_ to.

“Holmes!”

The falls answered me as I hurried around the rocks, and I found only his walking stick and a familiar cigarette case. I searched the narrow path, desperately hoping for a sign that he had left the falls, that he had simply forgotten his things when he went on to wait for me in Rosenlaui.

“Holmes!”

He did not answer, and two sets of prints walked down the path. Neither returned.

The case anchored a short note, and the roar of the falls echoed in my ears. I was too late. He was gone, and it was my fault. I had abandoned him, left him to die.

Grief landed heavily on my shoulders, and I felt my knees buckle beneath me. Dimly aware that I was about to land on sharp rocks, I braced myself for the impact…

And landed with a thump on my bedroom floor.

I pushed myself upright. I was in Baker Street, the pocket watch on my nightstand reading less than an hour after I remembered going to bed.

Quickly untangling the covers that tried to anchor my feet, I left the blankets in a heap and rushed for the door. Memory said that he had returned, and this felt real, but the dreams had seemed real, too, at the time.

Why was I in the Baker Street flat if Holmes was dead?

I hurried to the lower level, listening intently. What would I find downstairs? Was Holmes in his room? Or was he—?

The sound of Holmes’ breathing, deep and slow with sleep, carried through his bedroom door, and I breathed a heavy sigh of relief, leaning against the wall to listen. Though the nightmares were memories both, only one was true. It had been two days since Holmes’ return, since he had appeared in my consulting room in the guise of a bookseller. Two days since the hope I had lost with Mary had sparked back to life.

The spark was faint, but it was there, and that was a far cry from what it had been even the previous week.

The nightmares were just as frequent as they had been last week, however, and I had no wish to go back to bed. I moved into the sitting room, cautiously settling with a sigh of contentment. Holmes had left the door between his bedroom and the sitting room open, and I could hear him clearly from my place on the settee.

I glanced around at the room that seemed frozen in time. Nothing had been touched, as if we had merely stepped out for a day or two on some case. Holmes’ chemistry set still sat on his table, books—his and mine—intermixed on the shelves, and various trinkets still cluttered the mantle. I had no interest in any of the books I had left here so long ago, nor did I dare touch any of his things, but that was alright. I was no longer alone in my empty house. Holmes had insisted I take my old room for a few nights, and while I doubted he wanted me to move back after I had abandoned him, I would take any time I could get. I would have done almost anything to get him back.

Mary, too, and I wished she would return just as miraculously, though I knew there was no chance of that. The biggest difference between Holmes’ death and Mary’s had been the presence of the body in the latter, but I could not quite stifle the ridiculous hope that had sprung at Holmes’ return. I would grieve again when that finally faded.

But that did not matter now, tonight, when one miracle slept in the other room. I did not yet have to kill the irrational, impossible hope, and I let my thoughts drift between my wife and my dearest friend as I settled into the cushions, listening to a sound I had thought I would never hear again.

I opened my eyes without remembering closing them, finding myself on the settee as sunlight streamed through the window, and surprise coursed through me as I realized I had fallen asleep.

More notably, I had not dreamed. Perhaps the room was haunted instead of my own mind.

I readjusted on the pillow as amusement flared, though it did not reach my expression. I knew better to think that, but I could not deny I enjoyed the feeling of having slept for more than an hour at a time. Perhaps I should sleep on the settee for the next few days.

“Are you ill?”

I started, changing it to a stretch as I saw Holmes sitting in his armchair, fingers steepled in front of his mouth as he stared at me.

“No, I’m fine,” I answered after a moment, pulling myself upright and draping the blanket in its place on the back of the settee.

“Then why are you sleeping on the settee?”

I hesitated. What would he understand? I hardly wanted to admit to my nightmares. It was bad enough he had seen them the first night, but I struggled for an answer. He would see through anything that might have fooled Lestrade.

He frowned at me, something I vaguely placed as concern flashing in his gaze, and, unable to think of anything else to tell him, I finally tried to twist my thoughts a moment before into sarcasm. “I regret to inform you that the upstairs room seems to be haunted,” I answered, forcing a small, mischievous grin, “but the sitting room apparently is not.”

He had always derided any mention of ghosts, and I expected him to smirk and change the topic. His frown deepened instead of relaxing, however, and I realized that perhaps he did not want to find me in the sitting room in the mornings.

“I did not intend to fall asleep,” I added in apology.

He waved me off. “The settee is quite comfortable. Sleep there if you prefer. Perhaps I will join you out here tonight. I had forgotten how comfortable I find my chair.”

Confusion shot through me, but I said nothing. He used to complain about how uncomfortable that chair was for sleeping. Perhaps nostalgia instead of true enjoyment lay behind the comment.

“Do you have patients today?” he asked after a moment.

I hesitated, glancing at the clock. I had no appointments today, and I preferred nothing more than to spend the day with him, but would he want me around? It was one thing to tell me to take the other room at night. It was quite another to impose on him during the day.

It had only been two days, but when would he tire of having me nearby? I was not the greatest company.

“Not for several hours,” I finally answered. That was true enough, and I would be able to use it as an escape when he wanted to be alone.

“Excellent,” he announced. The corner of his mouth twitched, and I dared to hope that had been a grin. “You can come with me to the Yard, then. Lestrade wants me to return Moran’s air gun.”


	2. Chapter 2

“You did not have to pay for mine, Holmes. Let me pay you back.”

He waved me off again, reaching up from his armchair to nearly push the money back into my wallet. “Put that away. I said it was my treat.”

I did not try to hide my frown. “Holmes—”

“Are we going to do this all night? You have gotten more stubborn over the years.”

I had been trying to pay him back since we left the restaurant, and I forced the expected huff of irritation, still holding my wallet in one hand as I stared at him. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I am sure. Put your money away. Am I not allowed to pay when I said I would?”

“But you paid for yesterday, too.”

“And maybe I will pay for tomorrow.” He leaned back in his chair and started packing his pipe with the fresh tobacco he had bought earlier today. “I did not rely _completely_ on Mycroft’s help these last three years, Watson, and I am certainly not lacking funds now. I will not miss the money. Put your wallet away.”

I stared at him for a moment longer before finally relenting with a sigh. “Thank you.”

He nodded, apparently focused on getting his pipe to draw, and I settled into my chair as he launched into something he had done in Austria. The somewhat one-sided conversation lasted several hours before silence fell, and I stared into the flames as the evening slipped by.

“I should probably go to bed,” Holmes said some time later.

The comment broke me out of my thoughts, and I glanced up as the clock tolled eleven.

“Goodnight.”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “You are not tired?”

“I will follow you soon,” I replied with a shrug. In truth, I was exhausted, but I doubted I would sleep for long. I wanted him to fall asleep first, and I waited for his room to fall silent before I took myself upstairs.

_“Johnston! Stay with me, Johnston!”_

_“Alec, look out!”_

_“Leave me behind, Murray.”_

_“I love you.”_

_“Holmes!”_

I jerked awake, breathing heavily and clutching at the covers until I recognized my room. I was in Baker Street, it had been years since Maiwand, and while Mary was gone, Holmes was alive, downstairs.

Wasn’t he?

I hurried down the stairs, listening, hoping, praying I would find him in his room. He _had_ returned, hadn’t he? Why else would I be at Baker Street?

Faint noises carried from the bedroom, and I breathed a sigh of relief and leaned against the wall, trying to stay quiet since he was obviously awake. Dreams. They were just dreams, not reality. He was alive. Even though the others were gone, I had not caused _his_ death, no matter how close it had been.

I entered the sitting room, trying not to think about how bad the nightmares would become when the week ended and I went back to my empty house. Perhaps he would let me spend the night here occasionally, even if I could not move back. I had no idea what I would do after a nightmare if I could not listen outside his door for a moment. I would simply have to not go to sleep. Better to stare through the fire all night than watch either of them die again—especially now that he was here, alive after all—but I would face that when I had to.

I leaned back on the settee. I could not hear him with the door closed, but I did not intend to sleep, just rest. I could stare the night away, perhaps stir up the fire later if I tired of staring at the ceiling. I had done it enough over the last few months; a change of room would make no difference.

Holmes was right, I thought as I relaxed into the cushion. The settee _was_ comfortable, and I readjusted as I wondered if Mrs. Hudson had changed out the previous one. I did not remember it being so comfortable before my marriage…

_“You said you would stay with me.”_

_“You told me to leave!” I stared at him, surprised that he would actually voice what we both knew._

_“As if I could ever take you from a patient,” he sneered. “First you left me for Mary, then you left me on a dead-end path next to a waterfall. You abandoned me to die!”_

_Loathing laced every word, and I could say nothing else. He was right. I had abandoned him when he needed me most._

_“I’m sorry.” My voice was quiet, barely a whisper, and his scoff brushed the apology aside._

_“’Sorry’ doesn’t change anything.” He turned and walked away, disappearing into the ominous haze around us. I could not fault him. Why would he want me around now when I had abandoned him before? He could not trust me to watch his back, and besides, my very presence was a curse. I was better off alone. Everyone I cared about died. He would be safer without me nearby._

_Wait. If I was alone—if he was leaving—why was his breathing getting louder?_

_“It is just a dream, Watson.”_

_I peered through the haze, finding nothing. I heard him, but I could not see him no matter how hard I searched._

_“Holmes?” I finally ventured._

_There was no answer, but the familiar breathing remained. Was he here or not?_

_“Holmes?” I tried again._

_The breathing grew louder, and a heaviness appeared on my shoulder a moment later. I turned to look and found nothing, but the heaviness was clearly the shape of a hand—Holmes’ hand._

_“It was a dream, Watson.”_

_“I’m sorry.” Please don’t leave._

_I barely refrained from saying the second half, but the words that escaped were hesitant, far closer to a whimper than I would have wanted. There was no taking them back now, however._

_Silence answered me for a long moment, and I braced myself for the scorn, the rejection._

_“You have no reason to be sorry. Go back to sleep.”_

_The comment was Holmes’ way of absolving me, and relief bloomed. He did not despise me, did not scorn me though he should, and suddenly, the haze around us did not seem as threatening. I started exploring, his presence at my side._

Light shone in my face, and I rolled over with a grumble. I had apparently forgotten to close my drapes.

“I did not intend to wake you,” Holmes’ voice said. “Go back to sleep.”

_Back_ to sleep?

I blinked my eyes open, cursing myself as I realized I lay on the settee. Holmes had woken to find me asleep in the sitting room—again—and I glanced up at where he stood by his chemistry table, bracing myself for irritation.

All I found was contentment and perhaps a bit of empathy, and confusion shot through me. If he did not want me sleeping in the sitting room, where was the irritation that I had fallen asleep here for the second night in a row?

“The settee is rather comfortable, is it not?” he asked casually, polishing his chemistry set with a cloth though his gaze rested on me. “I have slept out here often enough, myself.”

I swallowed, smothering my surprise at his statement as I nodded. “More so than I remember it,” I finally answered, sitting up and moving the blanket I must have pulled over myself in my sleep. “Did Mrs. Hudson replace the one that used to be here?”

He thought for a moment. “I believe she did,” he finally nodded. “The settee was damaged when Moriarty set fire to the rooms.”

The falls pushed itself to the front of my thoughts yet again, and I broke eye contact to smother the flinch. _My fault._ I had abandoned him, left him to die. Would he have let us come with him if I hadn’t left? Mary would have thrived in the challenge, in the danger, and maybe she would still be alive today. She _and_ our child.

Yet another person I had failed to save.

“Watson?”

“Hmm?”

I avoided his gaze, folding the blanket and replacing it on the back of the settee before turning on the cushion to stretch. I should probably claim patients and let him have his day. He no doubt had things he needed to do that were better done without me along.

He made no answer, and I looked up to find him studying me, a frown faintly turning his mouth. Only then did I realize I had not raised my barriers high enough, and I quickly shuttered my expression. His frown deepened.

“Stop blaming yourself for what I did.”

_You would not have done it if I had not left you,_ I thought, still staring at him since he seemed to read more into my avoidance than my attention.

“If you had not gone back to the inn,” he added, “Moriarty would have killed us both.”

I would have preferred to die with him than to cause his death, but again I did not say it. I hardly dared to think it, for fear he would read the thought on my face. It would take some time before I figured out how to hide my thoughts from him. He was far too observant.

My hesitance reached my expression even if the thought did not, and he dropped the cloth to sit in his armchair across from me.

“I told you Moriarty’s men would have hunted me down had they known I still lived,” he said, watching me, “and Moran tried himself several times even after I left the falls. It took me several months to lose him, and then only because a blizzard trapped him in the mountains for a few days.”

Silence answered him for a moment as I searched for something to say. This was not a conversation I wanted to have, but I had no way to escape now.

“We would have come with you,” I finally answered when the silence stretched too long.

“Too dangerous,” he replied, shaking his head sharply, “and if you had known I had survived, you would not have written the account in the Strand so convincingly.”

“I would not have given you away.” He knew I would have died before betraying him.

_He might have known until you abandoned him next to a waterfall_ , something inside me whispered. I ignored the thought.

He hesitated. “I could not risk it,” he finally replied. “Better for you to be here—” he paused again, as if swallowing a word that had almost escaped, “—with Mary. I could take care of Moran and the others and return when it was safe.” A thought crossed his mind, plain even for me to see, and he admitted, “but I did not expect it to take three years.”

I did not answer immediately, considering that. I could not fault him for being unable to trust me with his safety—not after abandoning him twice, regardless that I had not seen it as such at the time—but how did that apply to now? I did not dare move back to my old room, but would he even want me to join him when he started taking cases again?

“Watson?”

I looked back up to see him studying me, obviously trying to read my thoughts though I hoped he could not.

“What happened at the falls was my doing, not yours,” he said, still studying me.

I was slowly remembering the need to listen to more than his words, and that assertion seemed to say more than it appeared on the surface. I stared at him, trying to hear what he left unsaid.

If he denied that what had happened was my fault, could that mean he was not angry at me for abandoning him?

“London has changed in the years I was gone,” he said after a moment, apparently changing the subject though the pointed gaze said otherwise, “and I no longer know every corner. I am sure you do, however. Do you have patients today?”

I hesitated, trying to decide if he meant that the way it sounded. I had reviewed my appointment book yesterday afternoon, and my one appointment later knew to go to Jackson or Thompson Senior if my door was locked. Did I want to chance it?

“There is a new statue near Charing Cross,” I finally hazarded, my desire for his company overriding my hesitation of monopolizing his time.

“A perfect place to start.” He pushed himself to his feet and looked down at me. “Shall we? There is a restaurant in that area we might try for breakfast.”

I paused but nodded, taking only a moment to freshen up before following him out the door. If he was not angry with me, I dared to hope, then maybe he would let me come along on a case occasionally. I had few enough patients remaining that even if I started accepting more, I would still have plenty of time to assist him. I would take whatever I could get.

After all, each day in his company was one more than I had thought to ever get again.

**Author's Note:**

> I love comments :)


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